Betraying Season (19 page)

“Here,
bean draoi
.” She felt a tug on her skirt at knee level. “Hold on to the table and get some o’ that brandy on yer insides. Ye’ve fair done yerself up.” Corkwobble’s tone was quietly respectful. “I’ve not seen such a neat bit o’ healing magic in many a day.”

“I hate brandy,” she muttered, but took the bottle that someone pressed into her hand and drank anyway. The dry, pungent heat of it made her want to sneeze, but it also made the pain in her head recede slightly. She opened her eyes.

Doherty still stood there, running his hands over his face. “You did it,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t believe it.”

That was annoying enough to make her stand up straight and try to ignore her headache. “Do forgive me for succeeding, Mr. Doherty. Would you have preferred it if I hadn’t? I promise I won’t do it again if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation. Now, please, don’t let me detain you any longer.”

“But . . .” He stared at her. “You don’t understand.
I
couldn’t have done this magic. You—you’re—” He took a step toward her.

She set the brandy bottle on the table and sighed. “Be careful. You’re coming perilously close to admitting that a mere female, and an English one at that, might be competent at magic.” The last of the brandy fumes in her head faded, and the fierce ache redoubled. If her head hadn’t hurt so badly that she couldn’t think straight, she might have tried the teleportation spell she’d been reading about and sent herself to her room. Or maybe dropped Doherty off the nearest bridge into the Lee.

“Miss Leland,” he whispered.

A sharp, staccato knock sounded upstairs. Pen started, then remembered. “That will be Mr. Keating. Please excuse me, Mr. Doherty, but I must go.” So much for a rest. Hopefully Niall would understand and stay only long enough to make sure she was all right.

“If you will be so kind as to put on the hat and leave, you should be able to make it home safely. Corkwobble, will you show him out?” Without bothering to curtsey or say good-bye, she turned and hurried toward the stairs.

The next morning, Pen rose before breakfast. After dressing swiftly, or at least as swiftly as she could without help tying her corset, she sneaked downstairs to Dr. Carrighar’s study to get the book she should have read four chapters of in time for today’s class.

Her head had finally stopped throbbing, thank heavens, and her right hand tingled only slightly instead of being totally numb. She’d left Doherty yesterday and answered the door herself to an indignant Niall, who’d slumped against the doorframe in relief, then half threatened to ask Dr. Carrighar to lock her in her room to prevent her from doing anything quite so foolish again. But he’d left after assuring himself that she was home safe, and she’d dragged herself gratefully upstairs to her room. Yes, she probably should have gone back down to Corkwobble’s cellar to make sure Doherty had gotten safely out, but quite honestly, she no longer cared.

Then Norah had brought her some tea and asked anxiously if she shouldn’t bring the doctor up to charm away her headache, but Pen had refused. The last thing she wanted was Dr. Carrighar asking questions. So she’d drunk her tea and gone to sleep almost as soon as dinner was over.

But that meant she hadn’t done her reading for today. Well, that could hardly be helped. And at least today she had a better excuse than that she’d been out at a dinner or concert with the Keatings. Not that she wanted anyone to know she hadn’t done her reading. Surely she could finish it now, if she hurried.

Norah was in Dr. Carrighar’s study lighting the fire and promised to bring breakfast up to her room. “An’ I wish you’d visit that scoundrel in the cellar when ye have the time, miss. Cook and I can hear him bangin’ about down there, moanin’ that he’s bein’ neglected,” she added. “He’s become dreadful spoilt, with you visiting him an’ all. Not that I’m complainin’, mind you. He watches his manners with me now, an’ I’m grateful.”

“Of course I will,” Pen promised. “I’ll bring him a treat after class is over.” She owed Corkwobble for his help yesterday . . . but neglecting him? Surely she’d just been to see him a day or two ago, hadn’t she? She’d meant to, anyway.

She lugged the heavy book up to her room and set it on her bureau, planning on combing her hair while she read. Drat. Another book written in strange, sixteenth-century language, with bizarre spelling and difficult grammar. At least this one was in English, though. Last week one of the readings had been in Latin, and she’d always relied on Persy, who was more fluent, to help her read any Latin texts Ally had set them. If only Persy were here now.

Norah brought her toast and coddled eggs that she ate without noticing, absorbed in her reading. When the clock on the landing bonged its single note marking the three-quarter hour, she jumped and flipped through the book. Still a chapter and a half to go. There was no way she’d be finished by ten, when the other students usually arrived. Oh, why hadn’t she just ignored that headache and gotten
this done last night? The only thing she could do now was to make sure she participated in the discussion of the first chapters and hope no one noticed if she fell silent on the latter ones. But for now she had to get the book back to Dr. Carrighar’s study; there was no reason to make it obvious to everyone that she’d just been doing her reading minutes before the start of class, even if it was the truth.

She slipped down the stairs and paused, listening. Good; Dr. Carrighar was still in the dining room talking to Cook, it sounded like. She dashed down the hall and had reached for the latch on the study door when voices from within the room stayed her hand.

“Nudge me if I fall asleep, won’t you?” Quigley’s voice drawled. “Late night, you know.”

Pen closed her eyes and tried not to groan out loud. Why, of all mornings, had anyone arrived early?

“It’s not my problem if you can’t pay as much attention to your watch as you do to Mary Connor at the Rose and Nettle of an evening,” Doherty replied loftily.

Doherty! Double drat! Why did it have to be those two? If it had been O’Byrne and Patrick Sheehan, she might not have minded slipping in to return the book. But there was no way she’d go in there now and let Quigley and Doherty stare at her and make scornful comments under their breath. Nor was she quite sure she wanted to face Doherty anywhere but in a formal classroom setting, after yesterday’s events. What should she do?

“Huh. You’re just jealous because she won’t give you the time of day.” Quigley’s tone was smug.

“No, I just have more important things on my mind than pub wenches, thank you.” Doherty’s was equally contemptuous.

Pen remembered the blood running over Doherty’s face yesterday
and his angry “I’m a patriot.” Of course he preferred politics to female company.

“Oooh, ‘more important,’ is it?” Quigley mimicked him. “Mary’s no pub wench. Her da owns the Rose and Nettle, and she’s his only daughter. She stands to inherit a pretty piece of change from her old man someday. Or isn’t that good enough for you?” He laughed suddenly. “I know what it is. Only got eyes for English aristocrats, haven’t you? Why look at Mary when you can come to old man Carrighar’s and ogle Miss Lela—”

Pen nearly dropped the book.

“Shut your gob, you idiot!” Doherty nearly shouted. There was a scraping sound as if he’d risen from his chair and shoved it aside.

“Hold on, man, I’m roasting you. Let go of my coat!” Quigley choked and sputtered.

“Not till you take back what you said!”

There was a pause. “Why, Eamon,” Quigley said at last, his voice amused, if a touch breathless, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say I touched a sore spot—ow! You’re throttling me!”

“Don’t you dare breathe a word of this to anybody!”

“Have you tried to kiss her—oww! Let
go
of me!”

“Swear it,” Doherty snarled.

“All right, I swear I won’t tell anyone you fancy—argh!”

Clutching the book to her chest, Pen turned and fled upstairs to her room. Almost panting, she sat down on her bed.

Eamon Doherty liked her? It was laughable. Completely ridiculous. He’d made it clear from her first day that he loathed her and resented her presence in their class. Yesterday he’d been incredulous that she’d been able to heal him and said so to her face. He hated her.

Yet if it were ridiculous, why hadn’t Doherty just laughed it off? And what had Niall said when they’d bumped into Doherty?
The look he gave you wasn’t one you give to someone you find loathsome.

Good lord, it couldn’t be. Could it?

She shuddered, remembering the desperate anger in his voice just now. Could a man despise a woman and still find her attractive? The very notion of such a thing made her feel soiled, somehow. Why, oh
why
, did she have to overhear that horripilatious conversation? How could she ever face any of them now?

A sonorous tone, and another, broke into her thoughts. She listened numbly as the clock finished striking ten, then resumed its thick, steady tick. Time for class.

But she didn’t move from her hunched perch on the edge of her bed. If she walked into Dr. Carrighar’s office now, she’d either burst into tears or hysterical laughter, and they’d know, Quigley and Doherty, that somehow she knew—

“Miss.” Norah was knocking on her door. “Miss, they be wantin’ ye downstairs. ’Tis time fer class.”

For a few seconds, she thought about having Norah tell them that she was ill. But no, she’d already fled one class in tears. She couldn’t avoid class every time something upset her because then Doherty would be right—she wasn’t strong and able enough to learn alongside men. And Norah would worry if she went back to bed complaining of illness, and would tell Dr. Carrighar.

“Thank you, Norah. Please tell the doctor that I’ll be down directly,” she called. After Norah had padded away, she splashed some cold water on her face and, after a moment’s hesitation, undid her plaits and went down with her hair falling unbound over her shoulders. It was not proper to appear so before others, especially
men, but she would not be leaving the house and it would give her something to hide behind.

As it turned out, she would badly need to hide.

Everyone rose as she came into the study. Dr. Carrighar merely nodded his thanks as she handed his book to him and took the remaining seat—which, unfortunately, was next to Eamon Doherty. She managed not to meet his eyes, but her skirt brushed his knee in passing and he recoiled as if she’d struck him. Quigley sniggered, and Pen shook her hair over her face as she bent to arrange her skirts, lest they all see how red she’d turned. It was his problem, not hers. She would not let them intimidate or embarrass her.

“I thought that today we would do something a little different and attend to our reading at our next class,” Dr. Carrighar began when she was seated.

Pen breathed a silent sigh of relief behind her hair. A reprieve! She would be spared at least one embarrassment today. This would give her a chance to finish reading the chapters she hadn’t made it through, assuming that she got back from dinner at the Gormans’ at some reasonable hour. Oh, goodness, the Gormans’ dinner! She’d nearly forgotten. What would she wear? Had Niall seen her in her dark rose corded silk gown with the paler pink underskirt? It was a little grand for just a small dinner, but it did look very well on her—

A quick motion in the corner of her eye made her look up.

“Miss Leland?” Dr. Carrighar beamed as he looked at her expectantly, holding his handkerchief in the air, and she realized the motion she had seen was him whisking it off something on his desk.

“E-excuse me?”

His smile faltered. “I asked if you would care to begin our practicum this morning.” He gestured down with the handkerchief
at two small piles of broken crockery that lay side by side on the blotter. Pen realized after staring at them blankly for a few seconds that they were shattered teacups.

A practicum! Oh, why
hadn’t
she stayed upstairs and pleaded a headache? She vaguely remembered seeing the handkerchief-covered piles on his desk when she handed him the book. One of the cups was from the blue sprigged breakfast china they used every morning. The other cup was boldly patterned in green and gold reminiscent of Lady Keating’s tea set. Borrowing the cups must have been what Dr. Carrighar was discussing with Cook when she’d sneaked downstairs to return the book.

“Er, begin? Very well.” She leaned forward and stared at the teacups. Why hadn’t she been listening to him, instead of thinking about what to wear tonight? What did he want her to do to them?

Two broken teacups. What did she think he wanted her to do to them? She silenced the snide voice in her head and straightened, taking a deep breath. Reassembly spells seemed a little elementary for this class, but she’d not complain.

“Reficimini,”
she whispered, narrowing her attention on the two piles of shards.

One of the piles—the breakfast china one—shifted, and in a small flurry of motion reformed itself once again into an intact cup.

The other pile of fragments didn’t move.

Pen blinked. Had she been showing off, trying to repair both at once? Or hadn’t she fully recovered from all her exertions yesterday?
“Reficere,”
she said a little more loudly, staring at the shards.
You are a teacup. You are broken. Be made whole.